A Longitudinal Study of the Holmes Brothers
by Ezra Quinn
Summary: Various ficlets detailing the childhood and adolescence of Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes, where their mother is abusive and negligent, and their father is absent entirely.
1. Haircut

"Stop squirming, Sherlock," Mycroft scolded his little brother, who kept trying to escape from his grasp when he switched the clippers on.

"Let me go!" Sherlock shouted, flailing his small arms and legs in all directions as best he could, while Mycroft's grip around Sherlock's waist tightened. The elder Holmes brother only had one arm to restrain the angry seven-year-old while he used his other hand to get the clippers going. He'd already scissor-trimmed as best he could, albeit sloppily, and now it was time to buzz what remained of the black curls. He had grown accustomed to using the clippers on himself for the past three years, just for the sake of being neat and looking presentable, but using them on Sherlock was a whole different story.

Sherlock squealed loudly when he found that demanding his release was no use, and an irritated voice from down the hall called out, "Mycroft! I told you, Mummy's got a hangover, so keep that little brat quiet!"

"I'm trying, Mother!" Mycroft called back over the din from his brother.

"Try harder!"

Mycroft set his jaw, but did not reply. Instead, he adjusted his hold on his brother so that his arm was around Sherlock's chest in a way that bound his arms to his sides and said, "You heard what Mummy said, Sherlock; keep quiet!"

"But you're hurting me!" Sherlock insisted, kicking his heels against the floor with more enthusiasm now that his arms were restrained.

"I am not! Now keep still, or else this _will _hurt!" Mycroft warned, and Sherlock stopped kicking, but kept mumbling protests under his breath.

"I don't wanna have short hair! I like my hair," Sherlock grumbled petulantly.

"But if I cut it, the bullies at school won't be able to pull on it," Mycroft explained for what felt like the thousandth time as he finally began dragging the clippers across Sherlock's head. It truly was heartbreaking, seeing the curls fall to the floor, revealing angry red spots on the smaller boy's scalp from where the hair had been pulled. Sherlock's classmates are all taller than him, and an intimidating group of boys enjoyed picking Sherlock up by his hair and dragging him around the schoolyard to make the other children laugh.

If only Sherlock could learn to keep his mouth shut about the insecurities and weaknesses of his classmates, maybe they would leave him alone. Sherlock may be a brilliant young boy, even compared to the boys twice his age who were in Mycroft's classes, but he had yet to learn the dynamics of social interaction for practical use.

"They only hate me because they're not as smart as I am," Sherlock pouted, kicking the floor to punctuate his statement.

"That's why you need to keep quiet about it, Sherlock. You need to stop saying things that make them angry," Mycroft said, trying to be careful as he drove the clippers across the center of the back of Sherlock's head; Sherlock had taken a particularly painful kick to the back of the head last week, and Mycroft had put emergency bandages on it to close the wound. Sherlock had clearly needed stitches, but Mummy had been out at a party, and by the time she'd returned that night, she was properly drunk and Sherlock had fallen asleep.

"Ow! That hurts!" Sherlock wailed as the clippers buzzed over the partially-healed wound; it had reopened when Sherlock had squirmed, anticipating the contact, and now it was bleeding again. Sherlock screamed in pain while Mycroft sighed and tended to the gash, preparing new bandages that he'd had nearby in the event that he'd need them.

A door banged open and soon the long, ominous shadow of Evangeline Holmes fell across the floor of the boys' bedroom. "I told you to keep him quiet!" She scolded Mycroft, whacking him across the head with a rolled-up magazine.

"It was an accident," Mycroft said quietly.

"I don't care. Make him shut up; it's annoying," Evangeline turned to stumble back into her darkened bedroom, but when Sherlock released a wail as Mycroft applied the bandages, she turned back and shouted, "You're not a baby anymore! Stop crying or I'll send you to school in nappies!" She stomped back into her room and slammed the door behind her. Sherlock hiccuped in pain, swallowing his cries, while Mycroft put on the bandages as gently as he could.

"Mycoff?" Sherlock whispered, his speech garbled from crying.

"Hm?" Mycroft prompted, gently rubbing his brother's back in a soothing motion, finishing off the hair that was left on the top of Sherlock's head.

"Mummy doesn't mean it, does she?" Sherlock turned to face his brother when the clippers were shut off, and his blue eyes that looked too large for his small face were wet and timid. He may have lost much of his innocence, but Mycroft could see there was still a good bit of a child left there still.

"Of course not," Mycroft assured his brother, squeezing his arm gently. "She never takes you to school, remember? I always do."

"Would you do that? If she told you to?"

"No, I wouldn't."

"I didn't think so. Mummy doesn't love me, but you do." Sherlock tentatively felt around on the top of his newly-shaved head, feeling the half-inch fuzz that covered his sensitive scalp. "Will the bullies leave me alone now?"

Mycroft hesitated before answering, but eventually said, "I think they will if you stop showing them how smart you are."

"Why?"

"Because, to them, smart things sound the same as mean things."

"Why?"

"I think you know why, Sherlock," Mycroft said with a small smile as he stood up to fetch the dustpan and brush to clean up the hair.

"Because they're stupid?"

"Yes," Mycroft replied, smiling down at his younger brother, "but you can never tell them that." The elder Holmes brother went to fetch the dustpan then, but Sherlock asked him another question before he'd left the room.

"Do you think smart things are mean?"

"Of course not!" Mycroft exclaimed, "I think smart things are great!"

"Really?" Sherlock asked, a timid hint of a smile pulling at the corners of his small mouth.

Mycroft nodded and said, "I have to clean up this mess before Mummy sees it, but when I'm done, you can tell me all the smart things you learned today at school." Sherlock beamed then, and sat on the floor, squirming impatiently for his brother to return.


	2. Dishes and Dignity

"Bollocks!" A muffled curse from upstairs caused Mycroft to pause with his dishwashing in the kitchen. He heard the bedroom door crash open, followed by Sherlock shouting down the stairs, "Where are the bandages?"

Mycroft sighed in exasperation and set down the plate he'd been washing back into the sink. "What is it now, Sherlock? Come here!"

"It's just a minor burn from a sodium-based-"

"Sherlock! Kitchen, now!" Mycroft shouted sternly, and Sherlock's footfalls were heavy and reluctant down the stairs. Mycroft turned around and leaned against the sink, facing the doorway when the sixteen-year-old dragged his feet into the room. His hair was a greasy mess, and he'd been wearing the same hand-me-down polo shirt and trousers from Mycroft since Friday.

"I already told you, it's a minor burn. I just need some bandages," Sherlock explained in a mumble, reluctantly showing his wrist to Mycroft when the elder Holmes held out an expectant hand.

Mycroft examined the burn and sighed with relief when he saw that Sherlock was right. Releasing Sherlock's arm, he said wearily, "Run it under some cold water. The bandages are in the cabinet over here." Sherlock obeyed silently, and sighed impatiently when the lecture began. "You have to be more careful, Sherlock. I can't keep bringing you to hospital with burns all over. We're on thin ice as it is."

"But obviously you're not burning me. I don't see how it matters."

"But it DOES, Sherlock! One more bad burn or split lip and they'll have you chucked in an orphanage, and I'll be brought in to Scotland Yard!"

"You're exaggerating!" Sherlock argued.

"I am not, and you know it," Mycroft said in a warning tone, trying in vain to seek eye contact with his younger brother.

"Maybe I'd be better off in an orphanage, instead of stuck in this bloody flat!"

"Sherlock!" Mycroft gasped. He knew it was mostly the teenager's hormones talking, but it stung nonetheless.

"The only reason we're here is because you wanted to run away from Mummy, and you dragged me with you!" Sherlock spat bitterly, turning off the tap and flinging droplets of water as he gesticulated angrily with his burned hand.

"This had nothing to do with me!" Mycroft argued, raising his voice, "I did this for you! She was abusive and negligent, and I didn't want you to be in that house any longer than you had to be! When we left on my 18th birthday to live here, I did that for you!"

"Much good it's done me! When I'm not shut up in the flat, I'm at school with a bunch of idiots who treat me like a punching bag. My experiments are all I have, Mycroft, and now you're limiting me with those too!"

"It's for your own good! I can't help it that you get roughed up at school; you've never learned to keep your mouth shut. And the experiments are dangerous. I don't want this flat blowing up, or having you taken away because you've spilled hydrochloric acid on yourself again."

Sherlock's fury lapsed momentarily into disbelief and he asked, "How did you know-" He'd been hiding his supply of hydrochloric acid from Mycroft, afraid that it would be confiscated the moment he found out about it.

Looking over his nose at Sherlock, Mycroft said, "I'm not an idiot, Sherlock. Don't forget I've taught you everything you know."

"But-"

"The student has not yet surpassed the teacher. In time, I'm sure you will, but not yet," Mycroft smiled weakly at his younger brother, but the lanky teenager averted his gaze to the burn on his wrist. After a brief silence, Mycroft said softly, "You had no right to speak to me like that. You know that I do everything I can to make things comfortable for you."

Finally, Sherlock looked at his brother, his platinum eyes scanning Mycroft's round face. He was only twenty-three, but he looked ten years older. There were deep creases in his forehead, bags under his eyes, and his hairline was prematurely receding.

There was also a mark above his right ear that Sherlock had never asked about, but had always been intrigued by, ever since he was very young. It looked like a cut that was consistently re-opened to the point that it had never fully healed. It had been there for as long as Sherlock could remember, and at first, as a child, he'd assumed it was a birthmark. But as he grew older and wiser, he realized that it was a scar.

"It's from a ring that Mummy always wore," Mycroft said quietly, noticing that Sherlock was staring at it curiously. "Diamond, naturally. When you were a baby and woke her up crying in the middle of the night, she would pull me down to your bedroom by the ear and lock me in until morning, or until she remembered that we were in there. Every time, it would graze just there," he gestured to the scar, his fingers hovering over it but not touching, "and that's how I learned to apply bandages without looking."

He offered a sad smile to Sherlock, whose mouth was drawn into a thin line as he listened, ever-reverently, to his brother. When Sherlock realized that was the end of the story, he reached slowly towards his own ears, feeling for any scars he may have forgotten about from his childhood.

"No, she never did it to you," Mycroft said, adding quietly, "She wouldn't touch you, for better or worse."

Sherlock toyed with the edge of the worn shirt he was wearing before finally speaking for the first time in several minutes. "I'm sorry, Mycroft. I had no right to be cross with you."

"I know you don't mean it," Mycroft said, turning back around to continue washing dishes, "And I know it's frustrating. But we have to be careful, for now. Two more years, and you'll have more freedom. Now, go and wash yourself up so you're decent."

"Decent for what?" Sherlock asked.

"Dignity, Sherlock. It's very important for people like us. We don't have much, but we always have our dignity."

"Mycroft..." Sherlock began, and his brother turned around expectantly. He scanned Mycroft's face, taking in every detail as he spoke in a rush of words, "Observation: the bags under your eyes are heavy, you're blinking more frequently than usual, you're moving sluggishly, and you're slouching. Conclusion: you're tired. Let me finish the dishes."

Sherlock stepped towards his brother to take his place at the sink, but Mycroft protested, "It's fine, Sherlock. I can handle it."

"You never slouch," Sherlock pointed out, and Mycroft straightened himself up, only to slouch over again. The older of the two smiled and reluctantly passed the dish cloth over to the younger.

"Thank you, Sherlock."

"Mm," Sherlock grunted in response as he got to work, and Mycroft gratefully retreated to the other room where he could have a nap on the sofa.


End file.
